


He Awoke ... as Sherlock Holmes

by SherKat



Series: After the Exile [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, M/M, PTSD Sherlock, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 10:58:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19666084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherKat/pseuds/SherKat
Summary: Welcome back, Sherlock.





	He Awoke ... as Sherlock Holmes

He awoke … as Sherlock Holmes.

Stretching out his senses. Hospital. _Wonderful._

Wait … _HOSPITAL??_ I’m supposed to be DEAD! Somehow, I never figured any kind of afterlife would resemble a hospital. Breathing. Moving. Blinking. Okay, not dead? Why? How?

He slowly blinks his eyes open and gasps unbelievingly at what he sees … _John?!?_

John Watson, asleep, with his head on the hospital bed, still grasping Sherlock’s hand.

Why is John here? HOW is John here? John has a family, he’s happy, living the life he wants, I was never supposed to see him again, ohmygod what if I _am_ dead? _OH, MY GOD, IF I’M DEAD DOES THAT MEAN JOHN IS DEAD, TOO?!?_ _NO! Nononono … John, John, John, …_

Tears are unheedingly streaming down his face. His breaths are getting shallower and more frequent. His eyes are almost bugging out of his head, his mouth gaping open with whispered moans of “John! John! John!” repeated between gulps of useless air.

John stirs awake, turns to look and sees Sherlock suffering amid a full-blown panic attack. He gently reaches out to hold Sherlock’s arms, trying to ground him, while quietly shushing him and asking him to follow his lead in taking deep, slow breaths. Eventually, the breathing eases, but the tears don’t stop. Instead, there are huge, full-body-wreaking _sobs_ coming from his once-stoic friend.

Sherlock can’t stop sobbing, the floodgates have opened, and he is reduced to one huge, gaping, open emotional wound. “John! John, I’m supposed to be _dead,_ why aren’t I dead, how am I not dead? Why are you here, you’re supposed to be happy, I’m not supposed to ever see you again, you’re not dead, too, are you? Oh, God, John, I can’t, I just can’t …”

John sits on the bed and embraces Sherlock, holding him tightly. Sherlock returns the embrace, still sobbing into John’s chest, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, for this, I can’t, I just can’t, I … I’m sorry, I know you don’t want to hear this but I love you, John, I’ve loved you from the beginning, and I just can’t, please don’t hate me, I just need you right now, please I promise I won’t act on it but I really need you to just hold me right now, please John I’m sorry I just can’t, I can’t…”

John pulls back slightly, just enough to look Sherlock in the eye. “Don’t. Don’t you ever apologize for loving. There’s not enough of that in the world.”

He looks down and takes a breath. “An awful lot has happened while you’ve been away. I need to apologize to you, for oh, so many things.” He takes Sherlock’s face in his hands, wiping away the still-streaming tears. “When you came back the first time, I was in shock. And I know now that I was being manipulated; we both were.” He looks deeply into his friend’s eyes. “But I chose wrong. She knew that you were the love of my life, because I told her so while you were dead, and she still went and did the things she did, to both of us. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had been drugging me, keeping me confused and by her side. But she’s gone now. And I am so, so sorry, Sherlock, for how I have acted towards you, and the horrible things I have done to you. If you could find it in that enormously huge heart of yours to forgive me, I would truly love to be by your side again, in any capacity you would be able to allow.”

“ _John!_ ” Sherlock sobbed, brokenly. “I can’t process anything just now, please just hold me, I need you, John, John… John…”

They embrace again, each trying to find their strength in the other, broken and raw and trying to heal.

There’s a knock on the door. Mycroft enters, about to deliver some sarcastic opening comment, when he is stopped dead in his tracks, mouth still open, by the scene in front of him. His brother, so obviously _broken,_ a big, emotional mess. He’s transported back to the times when he found his baby brother just this way, needing comfort, understanding, and explanations that only he could give.

Sherlock looks up to see him in the doorway, stretches out both arms to him and cries, “My!”

That’s all it takes. Mycroft is at his side, across from John, umbrella forgotten on the floor. Sherlock looks up at him and says, as sternly as he is able, “No more. NO. MORE. I _can’t_ , My, I just can’t, not anymore, please, I can’t … I just can’t …”

Mycroft shushes him quietly as he gently brushes the sweaty curls away from his baby brother’s forehead, a gesture so ingrained that neither one realizes its significance, both just relishing in the familiar comfort. “Will,” whispers Mycroft, “oh, Will. I sent that team in to try to recover what they could, so we could give you a proper burial and give our parents some closure. And here you are instead, alive and breathing, the greatest gift I have ever received! No, brother, I will never ask anything more of you, no more missions, I swear to you.”

They embrace, John on one side, Mycroft on the other. Sherlock snorts a small laugh and says, “How can I possibly still be crying? That IV must be connected directly to my tear ducts.” He lays back, exhausted, and tries to get a bit more rest, a respite from the seething emotional roller coaster he’s been on since he awoke. With his best friend / partner / love of his life holding one hand and his big brother holding the other, he feels safe, loved, and grounded for the first time in way too long.

Sherlock Holmes smiles a small smile to himself, closes his eyes, and allows himself to drift back to sleep.


End file.
